


Hemisphere

by TheGreenMeridian



Series: Globe [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Quoting Shakespeare at each other, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24004732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian
Summary: The equator is not the only boundary crossed that day.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Series: Globe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839400
Comments: 34
Kudos: 111





	Hemisphere

**Author's Note:**

> Some much needed smut and fluff with two of my faves.

When he first offers to help Henry with his reading, he’s honestly just trying to help him. There’s always a number of lads on every ship that never learned, and he’s given the offer to others before him, so there’s no ulterior motive in it. If Henry’s smile makes his stomach flip, well, he can keep that separate. Being what he is on boats full of men has him used to being able to compartmentalise his attractions, and it’s no different with Henry. Until it is. Until Henry’s warm heart and easy manner start getting under his skin, until he’s spent too much time pressed close beside him as they share a book, smelling the soap in his lovely hair and listening to his rich voice as he stutters his way through John’s favourite texts. Henry struggles more than most with reading but despite his frustration, he doesn’t give up, even engages John in debate over characters and their motivations, or the finer points of philosophical theories. He’s a smart lad, insightful, and so passionate. When he gets angry at himself, John’s quick to give words of comfort and more than once, Henry has laid a hand on his arm when thanking him for the help. In short, he’s not just beautiful, he’s a joy to be around, and soon enough, John’s lost to him. John’s not innocent, not by any stretch, and if it wasn’t for the way Henry had talked about a girl he once knew (“beautiful, John, like Dulcinea del Toboso, gold hair and alabaster skin”) he would think that some of the looks that Henry gives him are an indication of shared interest. But Henry isn’t the type, he’s certain of it. So the lessons continue and their friendship grows, and if John’s mind wanders when he takes himself in hand and he finds himself wishing to hold Henry close and tell him how wonderful he is, so be it. 

On the day of the crossing ceremony, he cheers loudest of anyone when Henry’s lifted from his final ducking and freed of his blindfold. There’s pitch smeared over his face and matted in his beard, but Henry’s grinning even as he coughs up some water. When he’s given his leave, he stumbles over to John and claps a wet hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t suppose you could help me get this mess off my face, John? I think this is a two man job!”

The ceremony’s over, a party will soon begin, and neither of them have any duty to which they need attend. John gestures towards the hatch and off they go, leaving behind the din above decks for the empty quiet below. When they reach John’s cabin, he hesitates a moment before pulling the curtain shut. 

“Sit on the bunk, I’ll have you looking fit for inspection.” He sets a comb and scissors beside Henry, and holds up a small bottle. “Soap’s no good for it, but oil will have it out.”

Henry tilts up his chin. “I’ll leave it to the professional, I think.”

He’d thought Henry would want to do this part himself, he’s surely heard the rumours by now, but if Henry’s not bothered by having him so close, then John will do as is asked of him. He frees Henry’s kerchief and places it on his little table. “I’ll get this laundered for you too, it should be saveable. If you bring your shirt to me later I can do that, too.”

“You don’t need to trouble yourself, I’ve got spares.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says, pouring the oil into his hand. “Now, hold still for me.”

At first he’s just wiping a coating over the pitch, but without him realising it he’s soon massaging it into Henry’s face with his fingertips, feeling out his jawline and skimming over the thin strip of skin between ear and beard. He keeps his eyes on his work; looking into Henry’s eyes from this close a distance won’t do him any good. Henry’s mouth is open slightly, his lower lip too bloody full and inviting to be borne, but bear it he must. When Henry’s face is slick enough, he takes up the comb and eases the broader teeth through the mess, wiping it on a cloth after each stroke until the worst of it is out. It’s the finer teeth he needs now to catch anything he’s missed, and he notices Henry’s breath hitching more than once as they scrape over his skin. The cloth is filthy when he’s done, but Henry’s beard looks free of pitch and the hair softened by the oil. 

“Hold on, I’ll wash you off.”

His voice is rougher than he expected and when he turns back from the wash stand with a fresh towel dipped in soapy water, Henry’s eyes have fallen closed. Maybe they’ve been closed for a while. He tips his head back when John’s fingers find the underside of his chin, and John wraps the cloth over his face as he would if he were preparing to shave him.

“Sorry, the water’s not very warm.”

“‘S fine,” Henry whispers.

John rubs the towel into his face, cleaning him of the oil and then the soap in slow strokes until there really is no more reason to continue. It’s gone on long enough as it is. He steps away and drops the towel into the wash basin, and Henry doesn’t move a muscle. He’s still sitting there, head tilted back and baring his neck, lips parted, eyes closed. A rosy flush on his cheeks. His breath is shallow too, and when John’s eyes move lower, he almost groans.

Henry’s hard.

John steps closer and after a moment’s hesitation, runs his fingers through Henry’s hair. 

“Touch me,” Henry whispers. “God, John, touch me. I know what they say about you, I know you like it.”

John strokes his hair again. “Are you certain?”

“Please.”

There’s desperation in Henry’s voice and it’s the most wonderful thing John’s ever heard. Of course he’ll touch him, for hours and hours if he could, undress him and show him all the pleasures one can find with another man, but he can’t. He’s lucky to have the time and privacy they have now, and he won’t risk Henry being found in a compromising position. Still, he won’t rush too much. He takes Henry’s cheek in his hand, caresses the soft beard, runs a thumb over that lip that’s been drawing his attention. Lets it dip ever-so-slightly into Henry’s mouth and hears his own breath stutter when Henry catches it between his teeth. He thinks perhaps Henry will allow a kiss, so he pulls his thumb free and dips his head, kissing him chastely, except for a slight suckle on that damn lower lip as he withdraws. Henry leans after him and John wonders if it’s the heat of the moment or if Henry really does wish to be kissed by him.

When he sinks to his knees, Henry’s hands end their death grip on the bunk railing and rest gingerly on his head. When he works open Henry’s trousers and lets his beautiful prick spring free, he feels them tremble. It really is a lovely instrument, flushed a delicate pink with a hint of darker red peaking from a long hood. He dances his fingers up the length of it and enjoys the silken skin and the warmth, rolls Henry’s skin up a little higher and lightly pinches the excess between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Feel like one of that naturalist’s specimens,” Henry says breathlessly, “the way you’re studying me like that.”

“Hmm, I’d say my interest is more aesthetic than scientific.”

He rolls the skin between his fingers and Henry gasps and shudders. It makes him wonder if anyone’s ever taken the time to touch him for more than just a sprint to the end result. 

“Bloody hell, John, I’ve waited for this for months, don’t make me wait longer.”

John raises a thick eyebrow at that, but it’s a discussion for later. Now does not require any more speech, his mouth could be engaged with far more interesting things, and he’s waited too. The height of the bunk makes the angle slightly tricky but he manages to take most of Henry down his throat in one fell swoop, his hands shooting up to Henry’s strong thighs to prevent him from rising up. He moves back up and suckles on his hood a while, drawing it into his mouth and fucking the bunched centre of it with his tongue, tasting what’s beginning to leak from within. One of the hands leaves his head and from the muffled sounds above, it’s now over Henry’s mouth. If they ever have the freedom for it and Henry’s willing, he’ll see if he can’t make Henry scream. When he’s had his fill of the plush skin, he pushes it back with his lips and takes to pressing the flat of his tongue against the join as he bobs his head. He’s always enjoyed this particular act, always had something of a talent for it, and that it’s Henry in his mouth rather than some stranger in a molly house or a midshipman too long without the company of a woman only makes it more pleasurable. He’ll see to himself too, of course, wanting to service men with his mouth has never made him shy away from finding his own release, but he doubts he could spare a hand for the task without Henry thrusting into his throat. He can feel him straining as instinct tries to take over and while he could simply keep a hand in place around his base to protect himself, he’s enjoying the sense of power he’s getting from keeping Henry immobilised. That’s what people always get wrong about going on your knees for another man: it’s not an act of submission but one of dominance. If Henry were to be asked which of them held control at this moment, there’s no doubt in his mind that he would answer ‘John’.

He hears Henry’s breathing become laboured, tastes him leaking, feels the pulse of him heavy against his tongue. Henry’s close, and John wants it. So he sucks a little harder on each upstroke, moves a little faster, lets himself moan each time Henry’s head slips into the entrance of his throat. Swallows. Henry’s thighs are practically vibrating under his hands, Henry makes a noise like he’s choking, his beautiful prick feels like it’s swelling and then he’s spilling; and all John can do is swallow what he’s worked for and lose himself in the joy of Henry’s nails scraping over his scalp. When he pulls back and looks up, Henry’s eyes are open, staring at him in awe and breathing through an open mouth. He takes John’s face with a trembling hand and despite himself, John turns into it.

“Let me do you, John. Tell me what to do.”

John rises to his feet Henry stands too, wobbling slightly where he stands and clumsily tucking himself away. They’re so close, so amazingly close, and John can’t stop the groan when Henry’s hand comes to rest on his prick. He nods, and Henry unbuttons his britches and pulls him out, gingerly wrapping a hand around his prick and not once does he break eye contact. John inhales sharply.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Henry whispers. “How do I...?”

“Just... like you would with yourself. Mm. Yes, like that.”

Henry look down then, swallows audibly as he takes in John’s prick sliding through his fist. “You’re big.”

John rests his forehead on Henry’s and looks down too. Seeing Henry’s hand on him like that, watching it slowly working him over, it only pushes him closer to the edge. He was already close from having Henry’s prick in his mouth, and it’s been a bloody long time since he’s had another touch him. He won’t last long, and he says as much to Henry.

“‘S ok. How can I get you there?”

“A bit tighter,” he says, unable to tear his eyes from what’s being done to him. “And... your thumb, just... yeah. Perfect. God, Henry.”

It’s good, it’s so bloody good, he can feel the pressure building behind his stones and in the depths of his belly. He shoves his hand in his pocket and grabs a handkerchief, and keeps his hand hovering close, ready to catch the imminent spill. His other is on Henry’s waist, not that he can remember putting it there, and he’s flexing it rhythmically as he grows ever closer. A little more, just a little more with have him there, he’s teetering right on the edge. Henry’s free hand manoeuvres his face so their lips meet, and kisses him sweetly, shyly. Making some soft little noise as he does so. Inexplicably, that’s what finishes him. The handkerchief is quickly cupped over the head of him with not a moment to spare, and it’s only decades of practice that stop John from crying out as Henry milks it out of him. He can hardly stand when it’s over, and it’s Henry’s fingers that right his clothing because his own are shaking too much. He sits heavily on his bunk and Henry sits beside him, like they’re about to share a book and slides an arm around his waist. Just like the kiss, it’s sweet and shy and while not at all what he was expecting, it’s certainly what he wanted. He turns his head and finds himself in another kiss and God, Henry’s beard really is softer from the oil. They kiss and they kiss until they’re falling back on John’s tiny bunk, Henry laying atop him as he holds him tight and keeps devouring his mouth. He’s never kissed someone so long before, he’s sure of it.

When they make port, he’ll blow his pay on a decent room and invite Henry to join him and kiss him in total privacy until his lips are even more swollen and pretty pink than they usually are. He’ll suck marks across Henry’s body, stretch him open and sink inside him, take Henry inside himself too. He doesn’t much care for it but he’ll do it for Henry, and enjoy every moment of it. Between kisses and lovemaking they’ll read to each other and discuss philosophy and art. He’ll help Henry with his letters by licking them into his skin.

A noise at the far end of the corridor shakes John from the fantasy and Henry is looking down at him and smiling. 

“We should get up. You’ll be missed, soon. This is your day, after all.” Despite his words his doesn’t remove his arms from Henry’s waist.

“Will you dance with me, John? At the party?”

“You’ll have people talking, you know my reputation.”

“Hmm. Suppose you’re right. When we land, then. We’ll get a room and you can dance with me there.”

“I would be honoured,” he says, pressing a last kiss to Henry’s cheek and gently pushing him off. Maybe he’s drunk on the kisses, maybe his old heart his a foolish one, but something compels him to make a fool of himself. “Hear my soul speak. The very instant that I saw you did my heart fly to your service, there resides to make me slave to it.”

There’s a pause as Henry takes in his words and John decides then and there that no matter the outcome, he’s glad to have said it. “I would not wish any companion in the world but you,” Henry says, his eyes as soft as his voice. 

“Go. I’ll meet you at the party, my Henry.”

Henry gives him a last, lingering kiss before slipping out of the room, leaving John to collapse back on his bed with a grin splitting his face and a heart far too giddy for a man of his age.

**Author's Note:**

> Henry’s comparing the girl to Don Quixote’s imaginary maiden, and the lines they’re quoting at each other at the end there come from The Tempest.


End file.
